


rulers make bad lovers

by leatherandlace



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F, allusions to flowers? check, angst? check, fluff? check, shameless self promotion? check, smut? check
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leatherandlace/pseuds/leatherandlace
Summary: in which it takes a transcontinetal road trip and a lot of foreshadowing for two witches to fall in love. long oneshot.





	rulers make bad lovers

**Author's Note:**

> i hope anyone who reads this realizes the full extent to which i worked on it. editing, editing, editing (and many google searches on flower meanings). as always, thank you to dana for encouraging me to write. xoxox. title is from gold dust woman.
> 
> (do people still even read foxxay?)

_ i. _

 

It wasn’t quite yet raining that morning, the clouds rolling with indecision, skirting around the sky in gray clumps as Cordelia stared out the greenhouse window. Her fingers ghosted along the sill, itching to push her hair back and busy themselves. Her mind had been vicious as of late, every layer of her conscious mind as tumultuous as the clouds before her, as indecisive as the color of the storm.

  
  


Her eyes drifted to the patch of flowers below the window, a beautiful pink peony, one Cordelia herself had not planted. It must have been Misty, one of her constant surprises in the aims of lifting her spirits.

  
  


Cordelia Foxx knew that she was the type of person to skirt around realizations and life changing decisions as if they were the plague, simply shouldering them away until they got too overbearing to ignore, at that point poorly dealing with it until it went away. But with this there was no denying. With this, Cordelia could go on and on convincing herself to ignore it, but it would stay at the forefront of her mind, nagging her and delaying her from getting anything done until it was the center of attention. Shouldering away  _ this  _ realization would do no good, not after she knew it was there, no matter how hard she wished herself back into ignorance, into the blissful abyss of not-knowing, into the underside of the canopy, shielded away from this thunderstorm.

  
  


God, she was in love with Misty Day. There was no way around it, nothing to mistake this uproar in her stomach, this beating of her heart, fast and strong against a weak and pliable cavity, mind soul, for something it wasn’t; there was no use in denying it anymore. When Cordelia was with Misty, she felt something she had never felt, not with Hank, not with any other lover she’d had in the past (though few). When she was with Misty, it seemed like nothing would satisfy the needy cavern in her heart and head, its sole purpose to drink up whatever Misty had to offer, or could offer, or would offer. She needed  _ more _ of her while simultaneously being filled with so _ much  _ it felt like she was going to be absolutely  _ obliterated  _ with sheer  _ feeling _ .

 

There was nothing like Misty Day. No one, nothing, could compare to her infinite kindness, the slight touches on Cordelia’s shoulder and elbow, possibly an old habit before her days as an all powerful Supreme. Nothing paralleled this incredible, ingenious woman, no garden, no sprouting of petals, no roots unfurling in golden soil, no mountain or ocean or forest could compare to the face that grinned at Cordelia. Nothing could compare to the small smiles that Misty shoots at her from across the room, or the way she’d sling an arm over Cordelia’s body as she shifted in bed.

 

(Their sleeping arrangement had been silently agreed upon after Misty’s return from Hell, shaken and thoroughly sleep deprived. It wasn’t as if either of them slept soundly and without night terrors, so they roomed together just because it seemed like the plausible thing to do. Misty was a fine sleeping partner, very affectionate, not that she was complaining. Every morning, Cordelia would wake up resting on Misty’s chest, Misty’s hands wrapped around her. Cordelia couldn’t say she minded. When they woke up, they’d lie in this position longer than they should, really, caressing each other’s faces, weaving fingers through hair, their legs twisted together in a way that felt so  _ right _ , though Cordelia knew this was all wrong, wrong, wrong, and if Fiona could see her now--)

 

And lately it was becoming more and more difficult to keep everything she felt inside, especially when Misty would lean oh, so close to Cordelia’s face, her lips (yet effective) movement, and she would leave  _ no space  _ between them. Misty had no sense of personal space, constantly touching Cordelia and standing much too close for her to breathe, and of course she didn’t mind, but sometimes it was difficult not to turn her face a fraction of an inch to the side and capture Misty’s lips with her own.

 

And, oh, their adventures in the greenhouse— _ god _ , that  _ damn  _ greenhouse. Nothing quite literally changed Cordelia’s entire perspective on life in New Orleans as did dancing throughout the building, collecting plants and creating salves and watering flowers as Misty followed, voicing everything on her mind and driving Cordelia absolutely mad with happiness. Listening to Stevie Nicks and Misty’s voice and the soft pitter patter of rain on the roof was all Cordelia ever needed, and then Misty would put a hand on the small of her back as she was moving past her, and she knew she needed  _ so much more _ . She needed all of Misty, all the time, she needed to spend the rest of her life with Misty Day because she was nothing without happiness, and happiness was nothing without Misty (not even close). Miss Robichaux's, the Coven, the council, Cordelia’s entire life was nothing without Misty, without her wild curls and obnoxiously loud jewelry and the way she’d call her ‘Cords’ at 3AM (and the smile that accompanied it, bleary and beautiful and unsurprisingly similar to ever blossom in the greenhouse).

 

It felt like they had been on the verge of something lately, like at any moment they could kiss or rip their clothes off or spontaneously make out in front of everyone. It was the looks Misty gave her, like she was somehow the brightest star, the most flowered plant, as though she was better than all the Fleetwood Mac songs combined. Misty looked at Cordelia the way she looked when singing Stevie Nicks, and it made Cordelia feel like she was  _ flying _ . It felt like their relationship had a future, and that future was racing towards them with every night of tangled limbs and small, crescendoing touches in the greenhouse, or the fact that Cordelia quite literally couldn’t keep her hands from roaming to Misty’s hair.

 

(“Gosh, Delia, ya sure do love my hair.” Misty giggled one night as Cordelia couldn’t help but running her fingers through the wild curls over and over again, sometimes braiding, sometimes twisting, never leaving the seemingly endless mat of gold.

 

“Mhm, I do.” Cordelia whispered.

 

Misty shrugged, and they were lying so closely together that Cordelia’s head moved up and down with Misty’s movements. “I like that ya like my hair.”)

  
  


Cordelia barely masked her feelings anymore, their interactions held on by a sliver of friendship, so that it was nearly impossible to distinguish between normal conversations and blatant flirting. She was fairly sure that  _ just friends  _ didn’t speak the way they did to each other, or maintained contact the way they did, or had any aspect of their relationship at any one particular moment.

  
  


But Cordelia wasn’t the only one flirting, oh, no, not at all. Misty would not refrain from complimenting Cordelia on absolutely every little thing she could, from a particular strand of hair falling in front of those “beautiful, natural eyes” of hers, or the way her dress hung on her shoulders, or the fact that her smile was “prettier than Stevie’s, and that’s saying something.” Cordelia was eternally smitten, showered in bushels of adorations, and she returned them, Misty’s blush permanently etched into her mind.

  
  


Winter was on their heels, nipping at them with voraciously cold nights and reaching out at them with numb, frozen fingers. (Misty complained of how cold Cordelia’s toes were on a nightly basis, drawing freezing lines up her calves and seeking the miraculous warmth of Misty’s body.) One particularly cold morning the two of them waltzed around the greenhouse, trying to keep the flowers warm while the heat began to kick in. Misty and Cordelia ran the tips of their fingers against the fragile leaves of different plants, the magic coursing through their fingertips and into the roots, warming the stiff stems. Cordelia had never been spectacular at resurgence—bringing Zoe back on the day of her rise as Supreme was the largest display of the power she’d ever been able to accomplish. It seemed after that, she couldn’t quite master the art, but Misty was teaching her, slowly but surely. Misty put her hand on the small of Cordelia’s back, one of her favorite worldly pleasures, guiding her to let the flow of magic inside her rush towards her fingertips and into the plant, like reaching equilibrium between herself and the roots.

  
  


Misty made the greenhouse seem like an entity itself, not just a metapopulation of different organisms, but also a living, breathing one as a whole. She once told Cordelia that the greenhouse knew their secrets, that it watched over the accumulation of their friendship, from Misty’s first incantation to all the confessions they had shared with each other on stagnant nights. “Something so full of life has to have something in itself.” Misty mused one day. Cordelia supposed that was true: after all, it was in the greenhouse that she had blinded herself yet again in an effort to find Misty, and it was also in the greenhouse that Cordelia decided she was in love with the woman she so often occupied the building with. It was only fitting that it would know her so well, if it was the being that Misty made it out to be.

 

That morning, Misty played with the tassels on her shawl a bit more than usual, her eyes skirting around Cordelia’s gaze—the air in the greenhouse was as tense as the swamp witch, as if each leaf and stem and root were holding its breath, waiting to hear what she had on her mind. “Are you alright, Misty?” Cordelia asked, noticing the aberrations of Misty’s personality.

 

“’M fine. Just thinkin’.” Misty trailed her fingertips over a tulip bulb, the petals sprouting into a beautiful magenta. After what seemed like an internal debate on whether or not she should elaborate, Misty gave in to herself. “I was thinking about the day I came here. Ya had those terrible scars on your eyes, and I remember as soon as Zoe rounded the corner with ya on her arm that my magic just  _ ached  _ to heal them.” She looked down, frustrated at something, with something, something intangible, clearly not the tulip below her. “But I couldn’t do it. The pull to heal those scars was so strong, Cordelia. I’d never felt anything like it.”

 

Cordelia frowned, putting her hand over Misty’s. “I’m sorry, Mist, I’m not sure what you mean?” Misty had always described her magic as another being, intertwining with her own soul, similarly to the greenhouse.

 

Misty searched for the right words, “When I saw ya for the first time, Cordelia, ya were in  _ so much _ pain—s _ o  _ much physical  _ pain _ , but also emotional. When my magic see’s something that needs healin’, it’s like it reaches out for it, like it’s pulling me towards it.” She shook her head, as if her words weren’t computing the way she wanted them to. “It’s like when ya try to reach out towards plants to heal them, ya want the magic to sort of wrap around the roots and heal them, yeah? Well,  _ my  _ magic sees something that needs to heal, and wraps itself around that object on its own accord. I can’t stop it—sometimes I can’t even feel it happening, it’s so natural.” Flowers seemed to bloom behind her to emphasize this point. “And when I saw ya for the first time, my magic wrapped around you quicker and tighter than I’d ever felt before, like I was  _ born  _ with my gift for that very purpose.”

 

Cordelia shook her head. “How come my eyes didn’t heal, then?”

 

“That’s what I was thinking about.” Misty scrunched her nose in frustration, “My magic was so drawn to ya, but nothing happened. It was like…it was like there was a  _ block _ . Like ya have an itch, but when ya scratch at the skin nothing happens, for lack of a better description.” Misty reached out towards Cordelia, touching the soft skin around her eyes, where ghosts of scars lurked, the blisters and scabs covered by a sheen of magic. “I never told ya this, but at night—at the beginning—I would lie awake for hours and wrap my magic around ya, just trying,  _ willing _ my magic to heal you. And every morning you’d walk into the kitchen and I’d hear your cane and I’d get so upset.”

 

“Misty…” Cordelia was at a loss for words. She wasn’t sure if she should be flattered that Misty wanted to help her so badly, or anxious that Misty’s magic somehow didn’t work on her. “I’m not sure what to say.”

 

Misty shook her head, “Ya don’t have to say anything, I was just—well, concerned I guess.”

 

“Concerned?”

 

Misty shrugged, a blush spreading across her cheeks as she looked down at her boots, covered in mud and stray leaves .“I’m just worried that something will happen to you, and I won’t be able to do anything. What if ya get hurt? Or what if ya--god forbid, what if ya died? And I’m not able to bring the life back out of ya?” She had never spoken any of this out loud before, too scared to voice the concerns to whatever version of Cordelia she encountered. But now that she was finally opening the gates, her words were rushing out, sloppy and anxious and full of pent up worry and dizzying hypotheticals. “It would be even worse to feel ya die, feel the life drain out of ya, and I just  _ know  _ my magic would be  _ reaching  _ for ya, and you’d just  _ die _ .”

 

Cordelia’s breath hitched, wondering, again, what to say. (She was consistently speechless when it came to Misty Day. Everything was a surprise, everything was new and fresh and left Cordelia in a state of wonder that never really seemed to ebb.) “Well, I’m going to try my best not to die.” Cordelia tried to soothe the witch, gently grabbing her chin and tilting her head up to look at her, “I  _ am  _ the Supreme. It’d be pretty difficult.”

 

“That’s not—I know,” Misty’s frown seemed glued in place for the moment, firm despite Cordelia’s attempts. “It’s just, it’s  _ possible _ .”

 

Cordelia laughed, trying to alleviate the tension, “You act as if you know I’m going to die soon.” At Misty’s silence, she grew even more worried. “Misty?”

 

“I know ya don’t take this seriously, but I do, Cords. I don’t know what I’d do without ya.” Misty looked away suddenly, walking to the other side of the table and beginning to busy her shaking hands with a wilting lily on the table before them. Though its petals began to bloom, Misty’s frown was fixed on her face.

 

Cordelia backtracked, not wanting to upset Misty in any capacity, especially not over this. “Oh, Misty, I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to worry about things you can’t control.” Cordelia rushed to stand beside Misty, placing a hand over hers. The lilies seemed to burst, the petals and stems growing a foot higher all at once, purple striking against brilliant green. Cordelia smiled at the sight, turning towards Misty. Acting on impulse was generally how Cordelia acted when she was around her, all sense of control and formality gone with the wind—it seemed as though wild blonde hair and blue, blue eyes were the only things needed to knock Cordelia off her horse. This was true as of then as well, and, on impulse, Cordelia reached out to brush a stray curl out of Misty’s face, leaning in ever so slightly to accentuate her point. Misty’s entire body seemed to go rigid with their close proximity, every muscle stilling with an unknown tension. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.”

 

With a moment of indecision written almost comically clearly on her face, Misty abruptly turned and wrapped Cordelia in a rib-crushing hug. The Supreme was immediately bombarded with the smell of rosemary and vanilla and something that just smelled like  _ fresh air _ , and they’ve hugged before, but never like this, never as if they’d fall apart if they let go, a pile of bones and flowers on the floor. Cordelia had  _ never  _ been held like this, like she was the sun and the center of gravity whatever universe they inhabited, and it felt like a million sunflowers sprouting in her mind and heart and filling her body with yellow and sunshine and love. Misty pulled back, slowly, agonizingly, and looked at her with such an unfiltered  _ passion _ that Cordelia felt the breath leave her body.

 

The air shifted as Misty slid her eyes away from Cordelia’s face, “I’m gonna figure this out, Cords. I promise.” With half a mind focused on some sort of plan hatching in that pretty head of hers, Misty wafted out of the greenhouse door. Just as expected, all of the petals on all of the plants wilted marginally, drooping with the unseen force of gravity that was Misty’s departure.

 

Cordelia felt herself wilt a little too.

_ ii. _

 

Since that day in the greenhouse, Misty had been unintentionally distant, spending more time than was necessary in the Coven library, pouring over dozens of books, venturing into only the kitchen to eat and their bedroom to sleep. Cordelia assumed it was what they had discussed in the greenhouse that Misty was researching, some hypothetical block in Misty’s magic that would somehow be the force behind Cordelia’s death. At first, she didn’t pay it much attention. She knew Misty was protective over her, and that her power of resurgence was something she took great pride in, but these mysteries  _ consumed  _ Misty for almost two weeks. She’d read and highlighted everything in those dusty books on resurgence, magic blocks, and Supremes, drawing imaginary lines and hoping they’d connect. Feeling guilty that she was occupying so much of Misty’s headspace, Cordelia spent her time with her in the library.  But the more Misty talked about the magical reasons behind the “block,” the more curious Cordelia became. Eventually, she started reading the books as well, putting two brains to one question and hoping to answer it—but, inevitably, one question turned into several. Why did Misty’s magic work on everyone else but Cordelia, and why was there no block on Misty for Cordelia’s magic? Why could Misty perform other types of magic on Cordelia, just not resurgence? And why was it that whenever they touched, some sort of life seemed to sprout around them?

 

None of the withered old books in the library did any good, of course. This concept Misty was proposing was a bit more abstract than what was written anywhere, and if the authors were anything like Fiona Goode (pretentious), they wouldn’t have believed in anything such as a magic block. These witchy scientists would probably infer that her magic was inferior. The only theory Misty would give any credit to was one saying that her magic wasn’t powerful enough to fix the Supreme, whose magic was  _ far  _ superior. The fault in this, though, was that the block started before Cordelia was Supreme, and it wasn’t as if the block’s strength paralleled the growth of Cordelia’s magic. So, theory disputed.

 

No amount of research or decades old magic books seemed to be answering the voracious need for answers, and Misty was starting to become anxious. “I feel like something’s gonna happen.” Misty tapped the eraser of a pencil against her jaw, her leg jumping up and down. “I hope we can figure this all out before anything bad happens to ya.”

 

Cordelia frowned, sitting next to Misty and wrapping her arms around her, much like their embrace in the greenhouse. “It’s going to be okay…we’ll figure this out. I know we’ll find something out soon enough. Have faith in us.”

 

“Of course I do,” Misty ventured, pulling back only slightly to look into Cordelia’s eyes, “I just don’t want anything to happen to ya, that’s all.”

 

Cordelia nodded, “I know.” She leaned forward again, resting her head on Misty’s chest in some attempt at comfort. “I know.” She repeated herself, sensing Misty’s anxiety like it was her own, coursing through her veins like a fire, burning her lungs and stomach and heart as if it were licking up the side of a tree, engulfing her with anxious flames, a forest fire in her chest.

 

The following days were practically the same—they woke up in each other’s arms, smiling with tired eyes before going to the kitchen for a quick breakfast (for Cordelia, a cup of black coffee; for Misty, a bagel with cream cheese and a cup of green tea). They would then venture into the library for practically the rest of day, their only break being a rushed lunch, and they’d research and analyze and come to dead end after dead end.

 

That is, until the Wednesday morning of the following week.

 

Cordelia had had just about enough of researching in heels and a dress, and though she hated looking anything less than perfect, especially in front of Misty, she opted out of the façade that particular morning.

  
  


(Her obsession with always looking pristine came directly from her mother, who insisted that pants were practically all but sin and would promptly scream at Cordelia until her throat was raw if she saw even a hair out of place. Since then, her dressers held only a single pair of sweatpants, and Cordelia resorted to this only when she was extremely sick. The last time she wore them was after she blinded herself following Misty’s disappearance—it had taken Myrtle about twenty minutes of rooting through Cordelia’s things to find them.)

  
  


Misty and Cordelia woke up very reluctantly after a long night of researching, and it seemed that Misty also planned on a relaxing look instead of a flowery skirt and a shawl. They both slipped on a pair of sweatpants, and were just about to leave the room before Cordelia realized she needed a pair of shoes (that weren’t heels). “I bought a pair of slippers a year back, give me a minute to find them in my closet.” Misty shook her head with a grin and flopped back onto their bed, looking up at Cordelia in disbelief.

  
  


“You’re really telling me that ya don’t have anything else but heels at the ready? What if there was a fire? You’d just run out in heels?” Misty laughed at Cordelia’s reddening cheeks as she bent down in the closet to find the pair of pink slippers she had bought on impulse last Christmas. The task proved to be a bit more difficult than originally expected—her closet definitely needed to be cleaned. There were so many pairs of shoes between the two of them that Cordelia couldn’t see anything but rhinestone encrusted sandals and black pumps, a sea of fashion forward footwear, granted, but no slippers.

  
  


Misty continued to giggle as Cordelia groaned, situating herself in the closet so she could push pairs and pairs and pairs of shoes aside. After a minute, she threw aside a particularly chunky heel and it hit the wall, knocking down a dusty book from a shelf. Narrowly missing a hit on the head, Cordelia picked up the book and blew dust off the cove, not needing to read the title to know what she was holding. The nostalgic feeling of its weight in her hands reminded her just what book it was:  _ The Witches Tales _ .

  
  


“Mist, look what I found! It’s this old book I used to read with Fiona, I forgot I still had it!” Cordelia hoisted herself up and ran to the bed, slippers forgotten.  _ The Witches Tales  _ was a book that had been passed through generations of witches for centuries—it was a compilation of short tales involving witchcraft, Disney stories for little witches who set things on fire instead of playing with dolls. Fiona only read her the stories when she was very, very little, and eventually stopped after Cordelia reached a certain age, but she remembered very vividly the sound of her mother’s voice as sleep overtook her, reading about witches and magic and true love. She didn’t remember the tales--it had been over 25 years. But it wasn’t the stories that really mattered, it was that rare moment between her and Fiona, like they were actually happy and functional as mother and daughter.

  
  


Misty flipped open the book, carefully regarding pages yellowed with age and lack of use. There were six stories, and with some skimming she scoffed at the plots, “These are all so sad and depressing, Cords!” She flipped through some more, shaking her head in disbelief, “A daughter killing her parents? A little girl burning down her village? Jesus, Cordelia.”

  
  


“They’re supposed to scare young witches,” Cordelia laughed, “Not all of them are bad, though!” She said this blindly, not remembering at all whether any of them were happy or not.

  
  


After a minute of flipping through bleak pages, Misty saw one with an opening drawing of a witch lifting a wave of water with her hands, titled  _ The Princess of the Elements.  _ “This one seems alright enough. Do ya want me to read it?” She asked, and Cordelia nodded reluctantly, not wanting to seem childish but secretly aching to read the stories again.

  
  


“’Kay. Here goes.” Misty licked her lips, smiling at Cordelia before starting, “ _ Many years ago, there was a powerful witch brought up in a family of witches whose powers were based in the elements. They were a royal family who lived on a castle atop a hill that overlooked their kingdom, and the citizens regarded them with the highest respect and love. This particular girl was special, though. All of her ancestors specialized in only one element—her mother could control fire, her Aunt Gertrude could manipulate water, and her Grandmamma could create a tornado with just a flick of her wrist. But this princess could control every element with surprising ease. _

  
  


_ Her powers left the kingdom in awe, and everyone absolutely revered her. Princes came from all the corners of the world, asking for the Powerful Princesses’ hand in marriage, but she did not love any of them. She feared that no one actually loved  _ her _ , but just her powers. Unfortunately, the princess was correct, as she was a very intelligent woman as well as a powerful one. One day, however, a young prince waltzed into the castle. When he met the princess, he was taken aback by her beauty and wit and charm, and fell in love with not only her powers but also her soul. The princess fell in love with his as well, and they were to be married. Though they were deeply in love, something bothered the princess—her powers did not work around him. _ ” Misty broke off, looking at Cordelia with wide eyes. Cordelia waved her hand for her to continue, suddenly enraptured.

  
  


_ “She always wondered why her prince, her one true love, could be the only person her magic didn’t work on. Logically, the princess thought her soul mate would be the most susceptible to her magic, but no water could ever curve over his head in a magical waterfall she bent over her sisters, and no air could whip his hair around when she wanted to make him laugh. Assuming this was no big deal, she soon forgot it. _ ” Misty looked back up. “A magic block! Cordelia, what if—“

  
  


“Keep going, keep going!” Cordelia shushed her.

  
  


Misty nodded, sobered, “ _ On the eve of their marriage, the prince told the princess he was to visit the stables to arrange a carriage for their honeymoon. In his departure, a fire raged over the kingdom, burning and killing and engulfing the kingdom in raging flames that failed to die out. The citizens rushed to the castle and begged the princess to stop the carnage and to use her control of water to cleanse the kingdom of the flames. Standing atop the hill, she waved her hands and, with a wink of light, all the fire was extinguished, except for one small building on the eastern side. Dread pooled in the princess’s stomach as she realized what the building was: the stables, exactly where her beloved prince was. _

  
  


_ The princess focused all her magic on the stables, the only lick of fire in the kingdom. She imagined the flames winking out and her prince emerging healthy, but nothing happened. She screamed for the citizens to use water to extinguish the fire, to do  _ something _ , but no one arrived in time. The prince and all the horses died with horrific burns, indistinguishable from a mass of charred skin. The prince,  _ her _ prince, died at the hands of the princess, unable to perform her magic on the one person she loved most in the world.” _

 

The two were quiet as the story ended, the weight of what they had read resting on their shoulders with dread and confusion, as well as tainted excitement. “Cords…” Cordelia shook her head at Misty’s voice, her mind racing. “Cordelia, the princess had a magic block. It only worked on one person. I mean, it’s missing some plot points, but it’s  _ something _ . How come this story has more of what we need in it than an entire library?”

 

“It’s just a story, Mist.”  Cordelia stood up, smoothing her shirt down. Granted, it was the most they had stumbled on magic blocks in all of their research, but, in her opinion, it was just as bleak as it could be. An unspoken line of questions seemed to streamline between them. If the story  _ were _ true, it would make Misty the princess and Cordelia the prince. It would confirm the fact that she was certainly going to die if she were to be mortally wounded, because Misty wouldn’t be able to save her. That much was already known between them, though. What really stuck with Cordelia, what made her chest feel like it was being inflated with giddiness and simultaneously being pressed down with fear, what made it impossible to look Misty in the eye, was the unanswered question of magic blocks being correlated with… true love? Soul mates? Cordelia had no idea, but the story implied that the magic block only happened in correlation with the witch’s truest love.

  
  


But was Cordelia really surprised if the story had factual base, if she was Misty’s biggest (perhaps truest) love? Who else would Misty love more? Cordelia and Misty could not be closer—they shared a bed, they shared lives, but more importantly, it felt as if they shared souls, as if the practical fabric of their entire beings were sewn together, each stitch completely embedded. Cordelia could not imagine what her life would be without Misty, could not fathom what it was  _ before  _ Misty, before traipsing throughout the greenhouse to Stevie Nicks, hands speckled with dirt and wooden jewelry, the smell of rosemary and vanilla in the morning and the press of lean limbs on her at all times.Misty’s breath was ragged beside her, and the bedroom was quiet. 

 

“So…so, um, who wrote this?” Cordelia was surprised by the sudden change in topic, but also a little relieved. Misty flipped the book over to see the cover. “Of course it doesn’t’ say who wrote it.” She rolled her eyes, looked at the book and Cordelia for a moment, and crawled off the bed. Cordelia immediately felt the absence of the weight against her, and it seemed that every cell in her body absolutely ached for her to return.

  
  


Misty excused herself to the library, murmuring about the author of the  _ Tales  _ and doing anything but looking at Cordelia. As she left, Cordelia rubbed her forehead and looked towards her closets, piles of old shoes spilling out of it, forgotten in the midst of massive revelations.

  
  


There sat her pink slippers, lying in plain sight all along.

 

_ iii. _

Cordelia was in the greenhouse for the remainder of the day, nursing wilting yucca leaves whilst contemplating her entire relationship (life) with Misty.

  
  


It wasn’t like she didn’t know she was irrevocably in love with Misty Day—it was no news to her, nothing shocking or confusing or muddled in repressed feelings, deep down under. Cordelia knew plain as day that what she wanted was beyond any semblance of friendship, but having it so out in the open was tainted with unbridled fear, fear of rejection, ostracization, fear of losing the one thing that seemed to keep her sane as the coven, balanced precariously on her shoulders. And the way Misty looked at her when they finished reading the story, as if something important and massive and  _ scary  _ was looming over them…it  _ terrified  _ Cordelia. It struck fear into her very supremely fortified bones. So many questions and hypothetical scenarios and wonderings of an anxious mind raced through her, sprouting malevolent roots in her brain, invasive and nasty--what if MIsty didn’t feel the same? If she didn’t, why was the block still there? If (god forbid) Misty  _ did _ feel the same, what was to become of their relationship?

  
  
  


Cordelia was so enraptured in her thoughts she didn’t notice the greenhouse minimally sprout and the soft humming of Stevie Nicks, accompanied with the ubiquitous swishing skirts, all tell tale signs of Misty’s arrival. Only with a light touch on the small of her back were Cordelia’s thoughts finally silenced, and she whipped around to find Misty incredibly close. “Hi.” She smiled nervously, her whisper as soft and fragile as flower petals, her anxiety practically palpable amongst the fresh air and smell of soil.

  
  


“Hey.” Misty seemed to mirror Cordelia’s nerves, yet she responded by pulling them closer together, some sort of hug and resting position that sent away all the ‘bad vibes’ one could ever feel. “I did some research.”

  
  


“You’ve proven to be surprisingly good at that.” Cordelia couldn’t help but be softened in Misty’s presence, she herself a flower growing, thriving, with the woman.

  
  


Misty blushed, “I found the author of  _ The Witches Tales _ .” Basking in a cocktail of revelation, she bit her lip, grabbing Cordelia’s hands and bringing them close to her chest. “Her name’s Amethyst Scarliing, she was this witch who wrote the tales in 1669 after the Salem trials. I did some online research too—I went in your office and used that big computer of yours, I hope ya don’t mind—and I found some sort of Scarliing relatives in Portland, Oregon.”

  
  


Cordelia smirked, impressed with the swamp witches work, “Scarliing? I’m fairly sure there was a Scarliing Supreme at one point—“

  
  


“I think we should go there.” Misty interrupted, breathless, clearly waiting to bring this up the entire time she had been in the greenhouse. “I think ya should call them and use your Supremely-ness to ask if we can stay there, and I think we should ask them how to get rid of the block so I  _ know  _ you’ll be safe.” Misty had somehow gotten much closer to Cordelia in the few seconds she had been speaking. Her hands were still clutched to her chest, and Cordelia could feel the rapid beating of Misty’s heart, curious and passionate. “I think we should go there.”

  
  


Cordelia opened and closed her mouth a few times--at first trying to think of reasons not to go, but then stopping herself. “I…I don’t see why not.” And of course she could  _ see  _ why not, there were plenty of reasons, but Cordelia absolutely could not think straight when Misty was this damn close to her, she couldn’t  _ think _ . All she could focus on was the feeling of Misty’s breath, little puffs on her cheek, and if the greenhouse actually  _ was  _ a cognitive being it would be witnessing a very flustered woman pressed incredibly close into an all too smug one.

  
  


“Good.” Misty breathed out. She stepped imperceptibly closer, so close their noses were but a millimeter away from contact. Cordelia’s breath caught in her throat, the world turning a kaleidoscope of different colors the closer Misty got—the pink vibrating against the roses, the gold falling off of Misty’s hair in waves, the flickering light bouncing off cheeks and nose and in the corners of eyes. A hand snaked its way into blonde curls and massaged lightly. Misty’s eyes fluttered open and shut, taking in every aspect of the facial features of the woman across her: dotted freckles that could be seen only in the slanted lighting of the greenhouse, wisps of blond hair falling in front of those  _ eyes _ , the incredibly brown eyes Misty thought she’d never see in their truest form, the eyes that held every little secret Cordelia kept bottled up inside of her. She eventually, without even trying, shifted her gaze to plump lips. The plants in the greenhouse stilled their leaves and it seemed as if the very particles in the air stopped dancing as Cordelia and Misty shifted closer and closer.

  
  


Cordelia ran her hands up and down Misty’s arms, enjoying the texture of sun kissed skin under calloused hands. The edge of the table dug into her back but she didn’t register the pain, her senses only focused on the pressure in front of her. “I better go call the Scarliing’s.” The sentence was ripped raw through a closing windpipe, and Cordelia wrenched herself from Misty’s embrace.

  
  


“Oh, um, yeah, of course.” Misty ran a hand through her hair, tangled from Cordelia’s hands. “I left the information on your computer.” Cordelia rushed out of the greenhouse, her sweater flying behind her in her need to escape the tepid air. Misty watched her go, the warmth of the woman in her hands still not leaving her fingers, still grasping on to any semblance of the moment they had shared, already missed. If she closed her eyes, Cordelia was still there in her arms, inches from her face, and they wouldn’t keep denying what they both very well knew.

  
  


She looked down at the yucca leaves Cordelia abandoned, and they looked right back at her. “What am I gonna do?” She whispered to them, and their roots curled in the soil and continued to stare.

_ iv. _

With a couple phone calls dragged through the molasses of anxiety, Cordelia and Misty managed to arrange their trip to Portland, Oregon. Cordelia’s anxiety was far from eradicated after her conversation with to the Scarliing’s, however it was lessened. The woman she spoke to on the phone, Wendy Scarliing, was an ancestor of Amethyst, and she seemed nice enough. Misty and Cordelia were on speakerphone with the woman during the phone call, and they had both picked up on the air of mystery surrounding the topic of her ancestry. “I can’t talk about it over the phone,” was the most information the pair received.

 

However, the Wendy woman offered them a room at her house, “This house has been standing since the 1800’s. I’m sure you’ll find the answers to your problem here.” And with that, the packing process had begun.

 

Planning the trip went generally smoothly—the academy was to be watched over by the council, and Zoe was to be stand in headmistress. The Academy’s population was scarce anyway, due to summer vacation, so there weren’t really any responsibilities that could be upheld by only the Supreme. The prospect of the trip itself left their minds swollen with anxiety. Neither of them could get their closeness in the greenhouse out of their insistent, pestering thoughts. Misty couldn’t stop reimagining the feeling of Cordelia’s hands in her hair, the weight of her in her arms, the ripe smell of the yucca leaves intermingling with the fragrance of cucumber, melon shampoo and bay leaves--“for protection.” They had gotten so, so close, and it wasn’t as if Misty had never thought of Cordelia  _ that  _ way, but in that poignant moment it was so intensely tempting to reach down and kiss the Supreme with all the vigor she’d kept pent inside since she’d entered the Coven.

 

Yet the world continued to turn, and Misty continued to dream, and the plans to visit Oregon fell into place as the plants in the greenhouse prepared to spend a week without their primary caretakers.

 

It was only on the drive to the New Orleans airport that it occurred to Misty the enormity of their trip, and how much damage—or safety—it could bring the Coven. Amongst the worries of spending an entire week with Cordelia after their moment of intimacy, she worried that meeting the Scarliing’s would bring no comfort nor closure to the topic of her magic block. It was a growing mission of Misty’s to keep Cordelia completely out of trouble until this problem was solved to her satisfaction—going on an airplane was exactly the opposite of doing so.

 

“I don’t want any funny business, Cords, please don’t mess with me on the plane.” Misty mumbled into Cordelia’s hair as they were wrapped around each other the night before their departure. As soon as Cordelia had slipped under their covers, Misty had encircled her waist with lean limbs and buried her face into  soft, fragrant blonde.

 

She settled her hand onto the small of Misty’s back, over bunched up fabric and the delicate knobs of her spine, “I won’t, darling. I’m going to be okay.”

 

And so there they were, boarding the plane and Misty keeping her eyes and hands on Cordelia at all times. From the moment they lifted to the moment the nose hit the runway, Misty’s calloused hands gripped Cordelia’s, rubbing circles along her wrist tattoo and up to her elbow, and then back down again. Cordelia let her do it with little to no resistance—the clutches of anxiety were no mystery to her, and loosening its hold on Misty was not a job she’d neglect.

 

The Scarliing’s had arranged for one of their staff to pick the pair up from the airport. Cordelia spotted a black Cadillac parked outside and lugged Misty (who wanted to make  _ sure  _ these “Scarliing people” weren’t involved in an elaborate ruse to kidnap the Supreme and her “closest confidant”) along. The ride was a monotonous thing, all awkward small talk with the mousy blonde boy who drove them, and Misty bouncing her foot up and down repeatedly, giving Cordelia a sense of impending doom—as if the crunch of gravel under the wheels and tinny sound of the radio were omens of some far off danger.

 

The Scarliing property included a sprawling mansion at the tail of an unevenly paved driveway. Misty pressed her palm to the window of the car admiring the the calla lilies lining the drive, their petals thin and strong and magnificent, reaching up and cupping the droplets of rain that seemed to gravitate towards the rims. Misty imagined just how beautiful they’d look in the daylight, not consumed by the blanket of night over Portland. “Calla lilies…regal,” Misty murmured under her breath. She turned towards the woman beside her, “This is some fancy place, Cords.”

 

Cordelia nodded, “I know, I wasn’t quite expecting all this.” She watched Misty’s eyes search the flowers, picturing her magic grasping onto the petals as Misty rested a hand on the window. Though the lilies exuded bravura, they were no match against the ever so slight curl of Misty’s eyelashes, the hollows of her cheekbones and curve of her jaw, the crinkles around her eyes when she smiled up at Cordelia. Cordelia had to focus all her energy towards looking away from the swamp witch in front of her and funnel it into the task ahead.

 

It had not been easy to come to the Scarliing residence, especially with the mystery behind Wendy Scarliing’s words. There had been no background, no promise of safety or fulfilling information, just the enigmatic promises of satisfaction from Wendy. Cordelia had not a clue whether or not this was a safe thing to do, or whether the mystery behind Amethyst Scarliing’s tales lay in Portland. All she knew was that Misty was consumed with the obsession of keeping her safe, and if traveling across the country on the basis of one woman’s words and a silly witches tale was enough to satiate Misty’s quest for information, then Cordelia would gladly make the trip.

  
  


Once they reached the residence, Cordelia and Misty were greeted by Wendy, who was just as inscrutable in person as she was on the phone—she was all shifting eyes and shifting feet, speaking in only curious phrases that bordered on riddles. As she was greeted with a kiss on the cheek and an exclamation of admiration for the Supreme, Cordelia felt a wave of superiority that came not from the witch before her, but from somewhere else—something inside the house, some _ one _ .

  
  


It was not Wendy. It was not the few other Scarliing’s assembled in the room around her.

  
  


Cordelia knew the reasoning behind Wendy's ambiguous invite to the Scarliing household almost the second she stepped across the threshold. She felt the power and wisdom permeating the walls and seeping into the very air, each breath filling her lungs with an almost intoxicating amount of sheer  _ might _ , and she knew  _ exactly _ of the source. As Misty caught Wendy's attention with murmurs of the lilies on the pathway, Cordelia held her hands out, letting the flow of magic crash into her like the tide, clashing into her own magic—she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

  
  


"She's here, isn't she?" Cordelia whispered, breaking the conversation of the two women beside her. "She's in a room upstairs, down the hall and to the left." Cordelia looked up at Wendy, the magic coursing through her veins making everything sharper, the pinpricks of hazel in Wendy's eyes, the press of Misty's knuckles against her palm, the dip of the heel on the soles of her feet, everything clear cut and defined. She could see, clear as day, the emotions flickering behind Wendy's front. 

  
  


Wendy nodded, "How did you know?" She watched as Misty rubbed a hand along Cordelia's forearm, feeling the vibration of magic and dipping into the well of it herself. 

  
  


“She’s the Supreme, ain’t she?” Misty smirked, but then confusion flickered across her face,“Um…what exactly did ya figure out, Cords?”

  
  


"I can feel her magic...all throughout the air." Cordelia couldn't tell if it was stifling or purifying, but she couldn't focus with the combined senses of Misty drinking in inches of her skin and the formidable force in the upper floor. She'd never felt anything like it, not even as a child, sitting next to a mother who radiated power. No amount of magic Fiona have ever possessed compared to this. 

  
  


No amount of magic  _ she’d _ ever experienced compared to  _ Amethyst Scarliing herself. _

  
  


“Misty, Amethyst is alive.” Cordelia watched confusion spread like waves along Misty’s face.

  
  


She shook her head, “How?”

  
  


Cordelia mirrored her confusion and turned towards Wendy. “Wendy?” The woman provided no answer, instead leading them to the grand staircase that stood in the loft, winding up to whatever secrets the floor above held. Misty gripped on to Cordelia’s hand, dragging the pads of her fingers along Cordelia’s manicure and down the lines of her palm. She imagined there was a flower between them, the petals delicate and in need of protection. Misty was beginning to worry. Everyone’s faces held anticipation and fear and confusion, and there was a strange magic in the air that she picked up on, a magic she felt quite literally racing through Cordelia’s veins. 

  
  


The three women eventually reached the room down the hall and to the left, blocked by a huge wooden door covered in intricate Latin carvings. Before Wendy could open the spell book in her hand, Cordelia laid a palm on the doorframe and closed her eyes, and soon the lock clicked and the door swung open.

 

Cordelia stood her ground, but the woman inside exuded so much magic that it was hard to even stand without her knees buckling. Misty held Cordelia up by the small of her back and her wrist, the imaginary petals dipped in water and struggling to maintain shape.

 

Amethyst Scarliing, she presumed, was sitting regally on what could only be described as a throne, every inch of it covered in old Latin script. Black powder lay in a ring around the chair, small decals branching off the original circle. Misty knew not what they meant, but every speck of dust felt powerful. Outside the powder lay pots upon pots of calla lilies—Misty frowned as she felt her magic call out to the abused plants, their petals somehow engraved in even more Latin.

 

What was most disconcerting to Cordelia, however, was Amethyst herself—she didn’t look a day over 50. Amethyst sat poised on her chair, her legs crossed under a lace dress, a Miss Havisham in a world full of brightness. She stared down at Cordelia from her chair, and Cordelia could not help but be reminded of the superior gaze of Fiona.

 

“If it isn’t the  _ Supreme _ .” Amethyst’s voice was clear and light, every syllable reverberating throughout the room and making itself known.

 

Cordelia nodded with as much movement as she could muster, as it seemed the magic weighed down her vocal cords, “You must be Miss Amethyst Scarliing.”

 

“That I am.” She turned towards Wendy, who stood in the corner of the room behind several pots of lilies, “You may go, Wendy.” Wendy quite literally scurried out of the room, and again, Cordelia was gripped with a mixture of fear and flashbacks of her mother. Amethyst stared down Misty, who was focused on the damaged flowers as well as keeping Cordelia standing upright, “And who are you?”

 

Misty smiled coarsely, “I’m Misty Day, Miss Cordelia’s colleague and a member of the Coven.” She nodded at the calla lilies around Amethyst’s chair, “The Latin on the petals is killing the lilies, Miss Scarliing.”

 

Amethyst shot a glare at Misty as if she were a bothersome insect flitting around her throne, “That’s none of your concern.” Before Misty could quip back, Amethyst waved a hand and silenced her, Misty’s jaw locking with magic. “Miss Goode, I must say I was surprised when Wendy told me about your call. No one has inquired about me for many decades, much less the Supreme of our Coven.”

 

Cordelia sent a shock of magic into Misty, unlocking her jaw. “We have many questions, Miss Scarliing.” Misty answered in turn for Cordelia, who was still struggling to stand against the magic. The black powder around Amethyst’s chair had some sort of property that was becoming damn near overwhelming.

 

“And what questions can I answer for you,  _ Miss Goode _ ?” Amethyst directed her question to Cordelia, dismissing Misty completely.

 

Cordelia stuck her chin up, trying to overcome the magic and fear in the room that no one else seemed to sense. “ _ We  _ have great interest in one of your tales,  _ The Princess of the Elements _ . Does the tale have any factual background?”

 

The laugh that ripped itself from Amethyst’s throat sounded frighteningly similar to Marie Laveau’s--hollow and cruel and full of distaste for the woman on the receiving end.  She looked at Misty and Cordelia’s clasped hands and sneered, shaking her head with a spark of anger and disapproval. “Before you go on, let me see what’s happening here. The magic of the Supreme herself does not work on her beloved, and so she comes  _ all  _ the way to Portland, Oregon on a wild goose chase for a  _ children’s  _ tale? Our Coven has become  _ pitiful _ .”

 

A wave of anger overshadowed Misty—no one would speak to Cordelia like that, not after all the abuse she’d received from Hank and Fiona and quite literally everyone in her life for the longest time. She was readied to defend the woman beside her, but Cordelia nudged her in a silent will to be quiet. Instead, Cordelia spoke up, “Miss Scarliing—“

 

“Oh, hush,” Amethyst roared, and the black dust surrounding her throne seemed to shake with an unknown force, “You may be the Supreme, but you are  _ nothing  _ compared to me.”

 

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Cordelia’s voice shook but held firm, “We came here to find the background of your story.”

 

Amethyst quieted for a moment, seemingly having an internal battle of whether to give them what they wanted. She looked at her nails--clean, pristine, and untouched by the years of age that should have turned them yellow. “You won’t like what I have to tell you.”

 

Cordelia felt the lump in her throat harden with Misty’s grip on her. “We don’t care.”

 

Amethyst nodded, “Yes, there’s factual background, but I’ve forgotten much of it, and I’m sure whatever I do know is intertwined with the false telling’s of folklore.” She again inspected her nails, noting the worried looks etched onto Misty and Cordelia’s faces. “And there’s no way out of it—if one of you were to get hurt, there would be no saving you, at least not by the other.”

 

It was like a bomb was dropped on the crowns of their heads, sucking the air out of their lungs and replacing it with a heavy sadness. “There’s no way to…no way to  _ stop  _ it?” Cordelia’s voice shook.

 

“None. And there’s no way I can help you either. Now please leave, it’s late and I’d like to sleep.” Wendy scurried back into the room and corralled Cordelia and Misty out, the tears in their eyes not even bothering to fall.

_ v. _

Misty sat on the bed in one of the Scarliing’s many guest bedrooms and watched Cordelia pace and pace and pace. “I’m sorry for dragging us all the way here for nothing, Cordelia,” she called out to her. Misty’s trembling apology stopped Cordelia’s incessant circling of the room.

 

She smiled weakly at the woman in front of her, joining Misty on the bedside and clasping their hands together. “Oh, Mist,” Cordelia leaned her head on Misty’s shoulder, another wave of emotion making itself present, “It’s not your fault.” Misty carded her hands through Cordelia’s blonde hair, bringing her arms around Cordelia and pressing their bodies together, chests and stomachs and arms and legs.

  
  


There was a tension in the air, almost palpable, a humidity weighing down on their hearts and minds. Their arms were still partially wrapped around each other, and Cordelia found herself craning her neck up to analyze every facet of Misty’s magnificent face—her chin and jaw that led to sloped neck and collarbone, the rounded nose that curved into smudged rings of black makeup around eyes that seemed to change color with her mood, blue when she smiled, brown when she twirled to Stevie, green when she brought life to the beautiful flowers of the green house, a kaleidoscope of beauty when she looked at Cordelia, especially then. And her lips—oh, her lips. Lips that seemed to part ever so slightly with baited breath, pink and plump and pouted, the doors of breath, practically aching for that so called righteous kiss, a dateless bargain with engrossing death, because if Cordelia didn’t kiss Misty right then, right in that moment, then she would certainly die.

  
  


“Cordelia, I—I can’t be alone when I say that I need to kiss ya right now?” Misty whispered, her lips centimeters away from Cordelia’s. She infinitesimally shook her head, and with that Misty crushed their lips together with the passion of so many missed opportunities.

 

Cordelia had imagined this moment countless times, but she could have never mustered how good this felt, to finally kiss Misty, to run her hands down her slim body, grasping at the beads of her shawl and any inch of skin she made contact with, to have Misty’s hands clutching the nape of her neck and digging into her hips. Their kiss was not slow and sweet as Cordelia imagined, but fast and heady and filled with want, all tongues and teeth and light moans. Misty drew back, gasping for air. For a moment she focused on catching her breath, but then she looked back at Cordelia with impossibly dark eyes, “That was… _ damn _ .”

 

“Agreed.” Cordelia laughed, her heart beating impossibly fast, flames licking up the insides of her thighs and taking root in the pit of her belly. Misty still had her hands on Cordelia’s hips, and she felt every pad of her finger on her skin, even under the cloth of her shirt. “Could we…could we do it again?”

 

Misty answered by pulling Cordelia closer to her, their heaving chests pressed with hardly no room between them, their eyes drawing imaginary paths along the other’s skin. Cordelia felt a wave of heat boil up in her and trickle down between her thighs. She pushed Misty’s mouth against hers, letting the need to touch and feel and be touched and felt overcoming her senses. The magic of the Scarliing house was enough to make her go mad, and abstaining from being with Misty for another second was simply out of the equation.

 

Without any hesitation, Misty scooped Cordelia up and tilted her down on the bed, straddling her and moaning into her mouth as Cordelia’s leg found its way in between her thighs. The sound itself made Cordelia’s back arch up, pushing her thigh harder between Misty. “Cords,” Misty whispered her name, her fingers making small paths up under the hem of Cordelia’s shirt. She lifted her arms and let the swamp witch scrap the piece of clothing, the absence of fabric immediately replaced with Misty’s hands over bra-clad breasts. Cordelia’s head lolled over for a moment, her body overtaken by this new intimacy.

 

Soon even her bra was gone, thrown aside and again replaced with Misty’s hands, leaving her in only lace panties. “Shit, Delia, you’re so beautiful.” Misty’s hands slid down the planes of Cordelia’s stomach, running her fingers over the nubs of her spine and into the small of her back. Cordelia shivered as Misty dragged her lips away from Cordelia’s face, letting them roam over her jaw and down her neck—she occasionally bit and sucked, doing whatever she could to elicit a moan from the woman below her. This was achieved as she lightly locked her lips around a hardened nipple, swirling her tongue around the bud as her hand kneaded the other. Cordelia let out a guttural sound below her and Misty smiled against the sensitive flesh she had so badly dreamed about for so long.

 

“Wait, Mist—“ Cordelia gasped, wrenching them from their position so they were face to face. “Take your clothes off.” She didn’t give Misty any time to react before ripping her shawl and dress away, revealing a braless body. Cordelia stared in awe at Misty, thin in the waist and all sloped limbs, a flushed chest, the dip of her navel into white underwear, the valley between her breasts, all before Cordelia in a picture of magnificent art, more beautiful than any other display of magic or all the flowers sprouting in the greenhouse all at once.

 

Misty did enough admiring herself, because if Cordelia was the sun before, she was now a supernova. With bated breath, Misty lowered herself farther onto Cordelia, working her way down her body with a series of love bites and sloppy kisses, going so slow that Cordelia had no choice but to squirm in anticipation. When Misty reached her panties, she looked up to Cordelia for permission. Through a haze of lust, Cordelia nodded furiously—Misty hooked her fingers into the fabric and dragged it all the way down shaking legs, and, god, this was already so much better than whatever escapades she’d had with Hank and they hadn’t even  _ done  _ anything yet.

 

The exposure sent a new wave of heat through her, and Cordelia’s hand snaked down her body to relieve the built up pressure between her thighs. Misty grabbed her wrist, though, and pinned it beside them. “I got it,” she drawled, a smirk on her lips and a glint in her eyes.

 

An explosion burnt inside Cordelia’s body as Misty’s thin fingers met the heat in her, drawing small, rhythmic circles on her clit, growing wider in diameter until there was hardly any pressure at all. Cordelia’s moan caught in her throat, rolling her hips desperately into Misty’s hand to regain the contact. She danced around her, purposefully applying pressure in the wrong place, then in the right places but too slow and too light to give any relief. Cordelia moaned Misty’s name over and over, “Please stop teasing, I don’t know if I can take it.”

 

“The mighty Supreme can’t take a little foreplay?” Misty teased with both her words and her fingers until Cordelia snapped, bringing her hand down to guide Misty’s fingers to exactly where they needed to be. “Okay, okay,” Misty caved, wanting to see Cordelia’s face get more red, wanting to see her eyes roll back and flutter shut while she moaned her name.

 

Misty slid back down Cordelia’s body, settling herself on a thigh to hold her own needs off for a moment—the ache in her grew with every noise coming out of Cordelia’s mouth, every new glimpse of skin exposed to her. She lowered herself to Cordelia’s core and waited for a moment, enjoying the power to make Cordelia squirm in pleasurable need. Then she let Cordelia’s responses guide her, using both her tongue and her fingers to make the normally composed woman go absolutely  _ wild _ . She deftly moved her fingers from Cordelia’s clit to where her tongue was working, alternating her methods every time Cordelia came too close.

 

“I—fuck, Misty, I…swear to god—do not stop,” Cordelia’s words were broken apart with involuntary noises and spasms, her train of thought continuously lost with every curl of fingers and swirls of her tongue. Every time Misty was  _ just  _ hitting the right spot, she’d increase her pace and just  _ stop _ , pulling away and drawing the most intense forms of pleasure Cordelia had ever experienced. “I’m so close, Misty,  _ please _ .” Again, Misty caved, and immediately halted her teasing to create a pace that made Cordelia  _ ache  _ for more, wanting it to finish but to never, ever end.

 

Misty felt Cordelia’s walls start to clench around her fingers, and Cordelia’s breathing started to become more erratic with every passing second. Her complaints disappeared on her tongue, and Misty knew she really was close. Any more teasing would’ve driven them both mad, so Misty worked faster, not paying attention to where her fingers landed but just how fast they were going. Just before the orgasm rippled through Cordelia, Misty buried a kiss in her neck. Cordelia’s back arched far off the bed, her head lolling back and eyes squeezing shut, Misty’s name like liquor on her lips.

 

Misty eased her off the high, ignoring her own ache for just a moment, basking in the beauty of Cordelia in this moment, completely unraveled in their temporary bed but never looking more perfect and at home. “I hope I did alright.”

 

Cordelia laughed breathily, shaking her head and at a loss for words. “You did perfect. More than perfect.” She pulled Misty in for a kiss that she hoped would communicate the words she wasn’t capable of forming, “Best I’ve ever had.”

 

As the buzz in her core started to fade, she felt the wetness on her thigh from where Misty was squeezing her legs together, and she smirked. Cordelia slithered a hand down Misty’s body, lightly flicking her clit and earning a gasp in return. She lowered her lips to Misty’s ear, biting the lobe and licking under the dip of her skin, “Your turn.”

 

That night, the walls of the Scarliing household were filled with the buzz of ancient Salem magic and the screams of a year's worth of pent up longing. The lilies lining the drive shook their leaves and sprouted their petals.

_ vi. _

“I don’t want to overstay my welcome, Wendy, but I’m going to break this door down if you don’t let me in.” Cordelia stood, hands balled into fists, in front of Amethyst’s Latin-covered door. This was the fourth time that day that Cordelia had asked to see Amethyst, and Wendy refused, claiming that Amethyst was ‘resting.’ “It’s noon, if she isn’t rested by now then she damn well won’t ever be.” Wendy pleaded with Cordelia to stop as she banged her fist on the door, “Let me in, Amethyst!”

 

Wendy sighed in defeat, “Miss Goode, I understand that you’re upset. But, truly, your meeting with her yesterday really took a lot out of her.”

 

“Isn’t she an immortal witch? The immortal witches  _ I’ve  _ met had a lot more strength than this.” She thought of Marie Laveau, cradling Cordelia’s head after Fiona smacked her with all the strength she had, “And a lot kinder, too.” She scoffed at the door in front of her, bringing her fist down against it once again, “Let me  _ in _ !”

 

“Cords, Cords, I don’t think she’s comin’ out right now.” Misty emerged from a door in the hallway and walked up to the two women. She put a comforting hand on Cordelia and smiled apologetically at Wendy, “Why don’t we go back in the room?”

 

Cordelia knew she was being unreasonable, but she was being bombarded with ancient magic as well as a new, more pleasurable kind, so her mind was scattered and quickly irritable. She gave another petulant glance to the door and walked off with Misty, her hand on the small of Cordelia’s back. Misty gave Cordelia a  _ look _ as they walked off, one that sent a shiver down Cordelia’s spine and a blush across her cheeks.

 

When the door closed behind them, Misty placed her arm around Cordelia’s hips, swinging them into a slow dance across the room. “You’re making poor Wendy nervous.”

 

“I don’t really care,” Cordelia shrugged into Misty’s embrace, eyeing the refractions of light from the open window to against Misty’s freckled cheeks. She watched as Misty shook her head with a little, knowing smile.

 

“Ya know, that’s kinda mean, Cords. Wendy’s obviously nervous around you.”

 

Cordelia laughed and walked them towards the bed until Misty’s knees hit the edge. Misty sat them down and Cordelia climbed on top of her, straddling Misty’s lap and resting her knees on the wrecked comforter. “Whoops.” Misty forgot how to breathe for a moment, too enthralled with the way Cordelia’s hips curved into her thighs and the slope of her breasts against the fabric of her dress, and she couldn’t help but picture the swell of them the night before, the way Cordelia looked more beautiful than she’d ever seen her as they were laying together, breathless at 3AM. Misty’s eyelids fell shut on their own accord, but she didn’t regret a second of their night—not a moment, not a kiss, not a single hickey that dotted Cordelia’s body.

 

“Let’s go out today.” Misty whispered against the skin of Cordelia’s collarbone.

 

Cordelia pulled back, a smile gracing her face, “What?”

 

“Let’s go out.” Misty got more excited as she thought about it, “We haven’t been outside the house since we got here. We have all of Portland to explore—plus, we haven’t gone out on  _ proper  _ date.”

 

“I don’t know, Mist…what if we miss our time with Amethyst?”

 

Misty shook her head of curls and placed Cordelia’s hands on her cheeks, “Frankly, I don’t give a shit about Amethyst at the moment. If she’s waited this long to talk to us, then she can wait a coupl’a more hours.”

 

Cordelia thought for a moment, a million reasons flashing through her mind of why she  _ shouldn’t  _ face the dangers of a new city—a new, unfamiliar city, away from home, from safety, form the known. But then she looked at Misty’s face, Misty’s shining, hopeful face. Cordelia had no idea where this, this… _ relationship _ of sorts was going. She couldn’t even outline what this  _ relationship  _ was, but she knew it wasn’t going to end that day, or the next, or the next...what her and Misty had was something that had been prepped and pruned and readied for just the right moment, that moment being unknown to them until it happened over anxiety and the smell of lilies. So, yes, she had no idea where this was going, but she had a strong inclination that it was going to go far, and Misty’s hopeful face was a testament to that.

 

“Okay, let’s do it.” Cordelia smiled down at her from their position on the bed, captivated by the grin that wormed its way onto Misty’s face, into her shining eyes—she was always so mystified that she could cause  _ anyone  _ to smile like that.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Cordelia nodded, “I’ll do anything if it’s with you.”

_ vii. _

“Uh, I kinda jumped the gun here and planned a whole day out while ya were yellin’ at Wendy,” Misty bit her lip as she fixed her white lace shawl, tilting on her feet in a spin as Cordelia hummed  _ Dreams.  _ They were walking down one of the busy avenues of Portland, and unbeknownst to Cordelia, Misty was bringing them to the nicest place she could find in the little time she had.

 

Cordelia felt something that felt so much like love and air and life as they strolled, and again, she marveled at the shades of blonde and green that revealed itself in different lighting—this one dark and honey with the yellow of the street light, slanted emerald with the stars. “I don’t mind, darling.” She bit her lip, grabbing Misty’s hand and winding their fingers together. It felt good, being out in public. It wasn’t as if they didn’t touch each other before (which they did, a  _ lot _ ), but this time felt different, the normal crackle between them intensified by each stroke of Misty’s thumb against her palm, intensified by just the mere thought of the prior night’s activities, in which her fingers were somewhere entirely different.

 

Misty turned them into one of the restaurants, where fairy lights hung down from the doorway like stars.

 

Dinner was full of surprises, mostly because Cordelia was unaware of any dinner at all, her idea of Misty’s perception of a “proper date” lacking any sit down occasion. “I said proper, Delia,” Misty smiled when Cordelia asked, “and that meant a proper dinner.” There was a little bit of wine and a little bit of sliding legs under the table, accompanied with a side of smiling and a floral centerpiece on the table that curled and beckoned every time the edge of Misty’s lips quirked. Cordelia let her eyes dip down to follow the curvature of Misty’s neck, allowing herself to admire her, dispelling the shame and firing nerves of hesitancy. She let her eyelids flutter when Misty bit her lip, let herself smile when she was caught staring.

 

“Who knew the Supreme would be so…” Misty trailed off, her smile overcoming her as Cordelia blinked and the rhododendron swayed.

 

“So?”

 

She smiled, “bashful.” And, oh, Cordelia was bashful in that she could not hide a single flicker of emotion from pulling her heartstrings, a symphony of violins ringing in her ears as Misty’s eyes seemed to twinkle under the lights, and she had wanted this for so long, wanted something, anything, that wasn’t platonic, some way she could spill her feelings out of her and be loved and accepted, an unconditional positive regard, her Misty Day catching the outpouring of love from her lips. Definitely, definitely bashful.

 

They walked around the city a little after dinner, Misty’s hand warm in hers, melting her eyes. There wasn’t a time they hadn’t held hands as if the center wouldn’t hold if they let go. Misty’s hands were calloused and rough, but were satin against her skin, the stuff of fairytales, warm and comfortable and  _ different _ now, now that it had held her in all new ways. Through blackness and then light, the satin was ever present, perpetual in its warmth even in the darkest of nights. “I heard there’s a pretty park a coup’la blocks down,” Misty smiled. “Apparently they have really pretty flowers, maybe it’ll remind us of home.” Home being the greenhouse, the plants and the New Orleans sun, the record player and the potions, the soft fingertips along their cheeks, dirt on their eyelashes, sleeves rolled up, eyes tracing paths as Stevie played. 

 

Cordelia let Misty lead them, a step ahead, her skirt brushing against her legs and the wind cooling her from the ankles up. Portland was loud and the lights were bright and Cordelia wasn’t sure she’d ever come again, but for now the facade of perfection remained strong and intact amongst the rushing traffic. 

 

They were at a crosswalk and Misty gripped her hand tight as they began to walk, tentative steps along the cement--a car sped by under the red and Misty jumped back, her curls uprooted. “Jesus,” she whispered as she held onto to Cordelia and crossed. “Oh, there it is,” Misty pointed towards a glittering collection of benches and trees, surrounded by clusters of hyssops and oleander and rhododendron, just across the road, breathtaking in its pocket of quaintness around the rushing traffic. 

 

Misty smiled at her and it was too much all at once, this love that Cordelia harbored for her in her chest. The door was not wide enough to let the rush out, there was too much to say and do and  _ feel, _ and Cordelia wanted to say and do and feel it all, all right now, all right now in this park and this town and this world. This day and this park and these flowers were the key to the rest of their life, and she was ready, the piano keys tapping faster, a crescendo as all the flowers in the entire goddamn world bent towards them with smiling petals. She pulled them forward towards the street with plans to promise the world to Misty Day right then and right there, smiling back at her with tears in her eyes, letting her breath out in a shaky exhale as she ripped her focus away from the flowers and towards the common denominator of all things good, whose smile was just as bright and just as breathless and eyes full of magic and moonlight and stars as Cordelia backed into the street--

 

The last thing she saw was the headlights stark against her own skin, and Misty’s eyes shift from love to fear as the front end of a car, thousands of miles away from New Orleans, crash into Cordelia’s side.

 

The rhododendron withered.

  
  


_ viii. _

  
  


“Help her!” Misty’s voice was hoarse and angry and scared and it cracked with the magic, squeezing her vocal chords into cries.

 

Amethyst Scarliing looked knowingly down at the woman, clutching her dear Supreme, bloodied and battered and quite dead. Misty tried to get closer, crawling forward with tears raining down on the woman in her arms, pulse halted, heart stopped. The powder circling Amethyst’s throne pulsated and shocked Misty’s fingers as she clawed at the air, the calla lilies stiff and rigid in their pots, Cordelia’s chest still, Amethyst’s smile hollow. “Help her, please!” She placed her hands on Cordelia’s pale cheeks, closing her eyes and focusing every cell in her body into breathing life back into her, into the woman she loved, into the woman she needed, but there was no response, no magic seeping from her fingertips, just pain and blood and hopelessness. 

 

“I told you it would not work, you stupid girl,” Amethyst mused, leaning forward in her throne. “I told you my story is true. She’s dead.”

 

“No!” Misty’s cry ripped itself from her, “Help her!”

 

(The car didn’t even stop, just kept going, as if it didn’t rip the heart of life from this very earth, from Misty.)

 

“Help, please.”

 

(She knew what the story said, of course she knew, but she tried to revive her anyway, the power of resurgence empty in her hands, short against the one she loved.)

 

“Please!”

 

(She didn’t know how she did it, but suddenly they materialized into Amethyst’s room, secrecy be damned, and Misty was on her knees, demanding, pleading, bargaining anything and everything to save her because  _ she _ could not, she failed, she was nothing in the face of this tidal wave of magic ripping from the universe, and Cordelia was dead, dead, dead, and Misty was alive, and how could she cheat death more times than she could count, but the all powerful Supreme could not?)

 

“God damn it, Amethyst, help her!” Misty could not and would not accept this, would not let herself be Cordelia’s undoing, not after everything, not when she just reached the peak of the mountain, the end of the race, not when she’d only tasted love for just a day. Cordelia deserved more, an unparalleled outpouring of happiness after everything this life had thrown at her, and Misty was prepared more than anything to give that to her--the coven was willing, Misty was willing, Fiona and Hank were dead, and the girls loved her, and she could feel in her soul that every goddamn flower in that greenhouse was dead and limp, just as the Supreme’s hands were, refusing to curl around hers as they always had.

 

“No…” her voice was soft, broken, irreparable. She laid on Cordelia’s chest, already missing her warmth and promise, the feeling of her heartbeat that she could feel inside her own self as they lay in bed, seeking comfort in each other, because that was the only thing that could bring either of them to sleep. She already missed the way Cordelia shined when she smiled, that blush that enveloped her cheeks with no shame, her eyes lighting up like stars when Misty laughed, the love that Misty knew was there before it was even said, the symphony of her voice when she spoke her name.

 

Misty’s sobs echoed as all the Latin lining the room began to glow, and softly, hesitantly, the calla lilies began to rise from their pots, uprooting themselves from the dirt, and, in a slow revolution, circle the two women. A gust of wind with no origin blew the black dust from Amethyst’s throne, collecting and dispersing onto the Latin of the flowers, lying on the words and creating a black, glowing scrawl.

 

No one had ever accepted, believed in, loved Misty like Cordelia did--no one else could even be capable of it. Cordelia was fierce, powerful, yet soft, beautiful, wonderful, unparalleled by any woman Misty had ever known or would ever know. She was beauty and grace in everything she did, when she smiled at Misty across the greenhouse, a flower in her hands and spells spilling from her lips, when she cooked the girls breakfast in the morning, surveying the little family she finally had and smiling when no one was watching (but Misty was, she always was). And this new side of Cordelia, the one that kissed Misty like the world depended on it, that let her love show and shine through whatever she could possibly transcribe in her hands and lips and eyes and words, who gave Misty everything she could have ever wanted in a single night, who lay on her shoulder and eyed her lips in silent questions that Misty promised she would answer.

 

Amethyst stood from her throne and opened her mouth to scream at the stupid girl, but her mouth uttered nothing, and Misty would not lift her head from the chest of the Supreme that brought nothing but shame on the once beloved coven. She clutched at her ancient heart in anguish, frozen at the sight before her.

 

Misty would have given her everything. She would have married Cordelia one day, would have proposed in nothing but a field of flowers with every meaning of love and acceptance and  _ beauty _ in their petals, she would have kissed her and tucked a rose behind her ear and wipe away Cordelia’s tears as she nodded yes, yes, yes. She would have watched Cordelia walk down the aisle one day in stunning white and a matching rose still in her hair, and she would look at Misty with that stunning smile. She would have held Cordelia every day for the rest of her life, would have protected her, would have made sure that she was happy in every moment until they died, except that fated moment would have come decades from now, and they would have been together, died together, after doing everything they had ever wanted to do. She wasn’t supposed to leave her now, supposed to die now, she  _ couldn’t. _

 

The lilies and Latin and powder turned faster and faster, rotating and rotating around them, but Misty’s face was still pressed into Cordelia, her hands emitting a soft glow, Cordelia’s face unchanging and still.

 

That future was the only future Misty could wrap her head around, not one without Cordelia, without love, without a greenhouse with their shared magic, the flowers wilted and dead, Stevie’s voice without any meaning, the hallways of the house empty, a portrait on the wall of Cordelia’s unsmiling face the only memory that she had ever even existed. She had been to Hell, an infinite loop of nightmares and terror, and that was nothing compared to the anguish of a future without Cordelia Foxx. 

 

The light from her hands glowed brighter, but she didn’t notice. 

 

Misty could almost hear Papa Legba’s cruel laughter, could almost see the evil smirk on Amethyst’s face, the satisfaction, she could almost hear the fire licking up her sides as her hands were bound and that stupid backwater town screamed at her, and none of it, nothing, nothing was worth it because Cordelia was dead, and nothing mattered, let her burn, let her rot in Hell, let her die. Cordelia was dead, she was dead, she was  _ dead. _

 

A heartbeat erupted below her.

 

Misty’s sobs halted and she wrenched herself from Cordelia’s beating,  _ beating _ chest, and the calla lilies swirled around the room so fast the curtains flew off and there was nothing but dust and wind and petals and her curls whipping to the side as Cordelia opened those brown eyes that Misty loved more than anything in the world. The color rushed into her cheeks as her eyes flicked back and forth across Misty’s tear-stained face. “Misty…”

 

Misty’s smile broke across her face and she gasped, bringing her hands to cup Cordelia’s cheeks, pink and fleshed and  _ alive _ , “Oh my god, Cords, you’re alive, you’re  _ alive _ .” She laughed, lowering herself to kiss lips that were just beginning to warm, but lips that moved and reciprocated and were full of life. “I love you,” she didn’t even bother to wipe the tears that were falling, “I love you so much.”

 

“I love you too,” Cordelia whispered, bringing her hand up to rest over Misty’s. They looked up at the floral hurricane around them, and suddenly, all the flowers and dust and glow collapsed and stilled on the floor, as if it hadn’t moved at all.

 

Finally, Amethyst made herself known. She threw her hands up in shock,“This...this is impossible!” Her voice was frail and weak, opposite her earlier regality and power.

 

Misty felt a surge of confidence, fueled by the lilies around her and the beautiful, breathing woman in her arms, “I did it.” Her smile was radiant, drawing life from Cordelia and the flowers and the sheer intensity of the moment. “Your story was wrong. I did it. I saved her from death.”

 

Cordelia felt sluggish and weak, barely able to lift her head from its spot under Misty’s supportive arm, but she smiled up at her, smiled at the slope of her nose and the curve of her smile, proud and happy, tears collecting at the base of her jaw and hair wild from the wind. “She’s right,” she smiled at Amethyst. “You saved me, Misty.” And suddenly everything hit her at once--she was alive. She was alive and she was in love and there was nothing stopping her from living that love out until the day she did actually die, on her own terms, with Misty by her side. She reached up and touched the hair in Misty’s face, brushing it away, reveling in the fact that she could do this now, she could be with Misty, she could love Misty, she could be everything that she had always wanted her to be, platonic be damned, romantic, lovers, everything and anything more. She thought of home, of the yucca leaves and potted plants in their greenhouse, of finally being able to swing around the countertop and kiss Misty like she had always wanted to, finally being able to whisper her love while rekindling with intertwined hands the hydrangeas that never seemed to stay alive. 

 

“Come here,” she whispered to Misty, bringing her down with a tug of her hand. Her fingers were still numb, and it was difficult, but she caressed Misty’s cheek, dragging her thumb down the side of her smiling face and down to the smile itself, reveling in their touch, in their closeness, in their promise of the future. 

 

“I’m not ever lettin’ ya go again.” Misty would never get used to the emotion running like pure magic through her veins at Cordelia’s touch.

 

“You’re never going to get the chance.”

  
  


ix.

  
  


Cordelia missed her bed. It had been a full 24 hours since they returned to New Orleans and she was still letting herself be swept up in the duvet, missing its familiarity and comfort. She turned to fluff her pillow and found her body screaming in resistance, still incredibly drained from her near (or technically full) death experience. 

  
  


“Oh, steady there,” Misty ran into the room with an armful of potted peonies, bumping the door shut with her hip and rushing towards Cordelia’s bedside. With the peonies safely on the nightstand, Misty pushed her arm behind the pillow, propping up the Supreme’s head, using her free hand to smooth down blonde hair and trace a line of freckles up and down her cheek. “You gotta get your rest, Cords.”

  
  


“I know,” Cordelia bit her lip and frowned, “what are those?” The peonies were beautiful, a lush pink that brought to mind Cordelia’s flushed cheeks, thin lips, her eyes the night before as Misty let her know just how long she was planning on sticking around. 

  
  


Misty shrugged, a little smug, “I grew ‘em for ya in the greenhouse earlier this morning, while ya were sleeping.” She had indubitably found herself there, breathing in the soil as it were home, all the yucca leaves and lilies and plant life immediately springing from their form. Misty had put her hands over a patch of soil, thinking about the night before, the kissing and the sudden lack of tears and the breathless gasps for air as hands roamed, and soon a batch of pink peonies burst through the topsoil. 

  
  


“You’re sweet,” Cordelia’s voice dropped, thoughts in a similar vein, rushing straight back to her heart. She looked up at Misty, her form sitting beside her, “I love you.” Her voice was breathless, feeling rushed but also slow and soft, and Misty could not help but fall more in love with her. 

  
  


“I love you too.” Just as breathless, just as full.

  
  


The peonies flowered. 


End file.
